


The Griffins

by impalaloompa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Worried Jaskier | Dandelion, eventual geraskier, geralt goes missing on a hunt, jaskier and yennefer team up to find him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-07
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:20:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23045437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaloompa/pseuds/impalaloompa
Summary: “He’s missing. He went on a hunt and didn’t come back,” Jaskier tried to draw himself to his full height.“Missing?” her voice was flat, and her eyes betrayed her concern.“I’m worried he…” Jaskier couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t even allow the thought to enter his mind.Yennefer turned from him; her hands fisted at her sides.“There was a lot of blood and – and feathers. Great big golden feathers,” Jaskier fiddled with the strap of his lute.“Where?” she turned on him, eyes blazing with fire.“A clearing. In the forest outside of Yefren,” Jaskier started back a step.Yennefer spun into the middle of the hall, arms out and murmured something under her breath.A wind swept up out of nowhere and a large golden circle started to appear before her.“Oh no, no, no, no!” Jaskier lurched towards her, “There is no way I am letting you go after him by yourself! If you think – “She stepped into the portal. Jaskier grabbed her elbow. His ears popped, his vision flashed and the next thing he knew he was on all fours in the middle of the clearing, trembling, panting hard, his sore knee throbbing.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 148





	The Griffins

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

“You know I saw him once, I did. Tall feller, white hair and strange eyes. He passed through my village, so he did. Not two months ago I reckon. He were on the trail of summat. Some monster wreaking havoc the village over.”

“I heard he bathes in their blood after. Y’now? After the kill. Them Witcher’s give me the shivers they do.”

“Nah I don’t reckon he does that. He seemed a very stoic and proper feller, he did. Very polite when asking his directions and the like.”

“They still give me the shivers.”

“Everythin’ gives you the shivers, Balec. Aint no Witcher the cause of that.”

The two men were sprawled at a table in the tavern, tankards of mead held in loose grasps, enjoying the warmth after a long day of hard work. The evening had taken a turn for the better when a young Bard had waltzed through the doors and after settling in, started up his set, singing about the great adventures and deeds of Geralt of Rivia, The White Wolf.  
This had started many conversations among the patrons. All discussing the Witcher, much to the Bard’s satisfaction.

“Don’t mean I have to like them,” Balec straightened up, drinking deeply from his tankard, “I never seen him but if I did, I’d steer wide clear. You’re a fool, Norden, for even talking to him.” 

Norden rolled his eyes at his friend. Balec’s mistrust in Witchers was rightly placed. He had suffered terribly at the claws of a monster a Witcher had failed to kill, and then the Witcher had taken off, pocketing the coin and not finishing the job, but Norden knew that The White Wolf was different. 

A third man joined them at their table, sliding onto the bench beside Balec and lifting his cup in greeting.

“Did I hear that rightly? You’ve met the Witcher?” the man asked.

Norden puffed up with importance.

“That I have, not two months ago I reckon,” he said.

“Oh, here we go again,” Balec grumbled.

“I met him too. The town over,” the man frowned, “Left to go hunt and then never came back. No one’s heard from him since.”

“That’s mighty strange,” Norden rubbed his chin.

“Probably took your coin and ran,” Balec grumbled into the bottom of his tankard.

“No, see, he didn’t take no coin. Wouldn’t until he’d completed the job. Wasn’t sure what he was hunting. Something big was ravaging the farmland but no one had seen it. Now he’s missing,” the man shook his head.

There was a sharp twang of lute strings and all three men looked round.

The Bard was very still, eyes wide, slightly pale.

“What do you mean he’s missing?” he said sharply.

“Just what I said, Master Bard. He went hunting, didn’t come back.”

The Bard’s grip on his lute tightened, the whites of his knuckles against the polished wood.

“Where? When?” he lurched over to them, grabbing the edge of the table for support.

“Uh, ‘bout four days ago. Little town called Yefren, not half a days walk to the east,” the man knit his brows together, lips slanting in concern.

“You all right?” Norden tilted his head at the Bard.

“Which way’s east?” the Bard made to move towards the door.

“You can’t go now,” Balec piped up, “It’s darker than pitch out there. You’ll get lost… or killed.”

“Join us lad, have a drink to calm your nerves. You can go in the morning,” the third man offered.

“Shit,” the Bard growled.

***  
If there was one thing Jaskier despised more than running from trouble, it was running towards it.

And he was running, sprinting as fast at his feet would carry him, until his chest ached, and his breathing was painful, and his knees wobbled, but he kept going.

The meandering dirt road was even enough so he didn’t have to think about placing his feet to avoid falling over. He could focus on the length of his stride, covering as much ground as possible in between. He could focus on trying to regulate his breathing so he could keep the pace up for longer.

There was a deep and desperate panic driving him on. Geralt was missing. Those three words sparked dread in the pit of his stomach. 

He tore across the countryside as the new morning sun glinted above the horizon, praying to any God who was listening that he would find Geralt alive and well.

He stumbled, his knees buckled, and he crashed heavily to the ground. Pain lanced though his right knee, but he pushed himself up, shaking with exhaustion, breath sobbing in his chest, and kept going.

Geralt wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead. Jaskier was going to find him and bring him back alive. He had to. He needed Geralt. He needed his friend. He didn’t know what he’d do without him.

The sharp stabbing in his knee caused him to hiss in pain and he was forced to slow down. His hair was plastered to his forehand and beads of sweat dripped down his skin. He was red in the face and snatching breaths of air, hoping that his knee wouldn’t give way entirely. 

Geralt was probably fine. He was panicking for nothing. But what if…

He spotted the town perched on the edge of rolling farmland and hobbled on, trying to keep as much of his weight off his sore leg as possible.

There was a steady throng of people milling about as the morning market was starting to get underway.

Jaskier leaned against the corner of a blacksmith’s workshop, trembling slightly as he struggled to steady his breathing and catch his racing thoughts.

“You all right son?” a gruff voice made him start and he looked up into the face of the burly blacksmith, already covered in grime and peering at him from the entrance to his workshop.

Jaskier quickly regained his composure, forcing his worry away, hiding his vulnerability behind his bravado and charm, trying to seem nonchalant in the presence of the stranger, “I don’t suppose you’ve seen a Witcher around here, have you? Tall? White hair? Scary eyes? In love with his horse?”

“Aye,” the blacksmith nodded.

“Right… good. Where, uh, where is he?” Jaskier quirked his eyebrows at the blacksmith, tilting his head slightly, leaning against the wall.

“Not here,” the blacksmith turned away from him and disappeared back into his workshop.

Jaskier chewed his cheek.

“Oi, Bard!” 

Jaskier turned to try find the owner of the voice. He spotted a man, not much younger than himself, trotting towards him.

“You trying to find the Witcher?” the man asked him.

“Yeah, he’s a friend of mine. I understand he was here. A few days ago?”

“Yeah, yeah, he was. He went off after whatever has been attacking our farmlands and didn’t come back.”

“Can you show me where he went?” Jaskier’s gut clenched.

“For sure. Follow me,” the young man spun on the spot and beckoned Jaskier to follow him.

Jaskier limped after him, gritting his teeth against the pain shooting through his knee.

The young man led him to the outskirts of the town and along the perimeter of a paddock. Jaskier froze when he saw a familiar chestnut mare grazing lazily amongst the sweet grass.

“You alright sir?” the young man looked back at him.

A lump had formed in Jaskier’s throat and his chest felt tight. If Roach was here, that meant Geralt hadn’t come back for her after the hunt. And if he hadn’t come back for her after the hunt…

“We need to go,” Jaskier turned away from Roach and hurried after the young man, “How much further?”

“See the trees? That’s the way he went,” the young man pointed towards the line of trees that shadowed the edge of the farmland. 

Huge firs and conifers, a sea of green that bled onto rocky cliffs and screes of the small mountain range behind it.

Jaskier swallowed hard.

“Most of the attacks happened along here,” the young man indicated the fields framed by the forest, “Cows and sheep and the like all torn up. Horses going missing. Even the baker’s son got attacked. He went searching for whatever was doing it. They found his head in that thicket over there.”

Jaskier flicked his gaze to where the young man was pointing, then kept his focus on the looming trees ahead.

“I go no further. There aint no way I’m going in there,” the man stopped by a gate about a hundred yards from the tree line, arms folded across his chest. 

Jaskier hadn’t expected him to, but he couldn’t help the sinking feeling in his gut.

The Bard adjusted his lute strap and approached the trees.

“I hope you find the Witcher,” the young man called after him.

“So do I,” Jaskier grit his teeth.

The dense canopy above allowed little light to filter through and Jaskier found himself struggling to see the rugged path under his feet.

With the pain in his knee it was slow going as he carefully navigated the jutting roots and stones.

A twig cracked to his left and he snapped round, straining to hear, to see. Nothing.

He took a shaky breath and kept going.

“Brilliant idea Jaskier, stellar. One of your best yet,” he grumbled to himself, “go off after the Witcher alone, with no plan, no back up, with a fucked-up knee, into a great big, scary wood, and he could be anywhere. Anywhere! What were you thinking?”

He stopped for a moment, leaning against a tree, taking the weight off his sore leg, weighing up the pros and cons of his next idea.

Fuck it.

“Geralt?” he shouted.

His voice bounced around the nearest trees, quickly muted by the close-knit branches above him.

There was nothing. Not even the startling of birds.

“GERALT!” he screamed into the gloom, his pulse thrumming under his skin, his gut twisting with the start of panic.

Nothing.

He stood awkwardly, breathing hard, hands clenching and unclenching by his sides. 

He chewed his lip.

He looked as far as he could along the path. He looked back the way he came. 

“Fuck, Geralt,” he whined, “Where are you?”

Slowly, on unsteady legs, he turned to go back along the path towards the village. There was no point him blundering through thick woods with no idea what he was doing. He needed to regroup, form a plan.

Then something caught his eye. The ferns. On the edge of the path. They looked… crooked. As if something, or someone, had stepped on them.

He knew Geralt could move lightly and nimbly through any kind of terrain, like a cat on the prowl, but there was a chance wasn’t there? That these crumpled ferns could have been him?

Jaskier sucked in a breath and pushed through the course bracken, stepping off the path and over the ferns.

He peered at the foliage and earth in front of him, moving slowly, the lack of light giving him a headache.

He crouched down, knee shaking in protest, and ghosted his fingers over the compacted mud. There was a faint outline of a large boot print. He was right, someone had definitely come this way. 

He pushed on, straining for more signs of the Witcher until the trees started to thin and blades of light cut through to the forest floor.

Ahead of him was a clearing. 

Cold dread creeped though him as he stepped into the light.

The mossy earth was scored with deep gouges. Golden feathers littered the ground. Spatters of scarlet painted the earth, the trees, the ferns all around.

Jaskier’s stomach dropped when something glinting at the edge of the clearing caught his eye. Geralt’s silver sword.

“Fuck!” he wailed, looking around frantically, hoping to see… something, anything, that would tell him where Geralt was.

He checked the edges of the clearing, again, and again, but there was no sign that the fight had left the clearing. Geralt, and whatever he had been hunting, had just disappeared.

He carefully picked up the Witcher’s sword, surprisingly lighter than he expected, and tucked it into his belt.

He blinked away tears as he forced himself to think rationally.

“What would Geralt do?” he bit his lip, “What would Geralt do? What would – ah fuck.”

***  
Jaskier hesitated, hand at the ready to knock on the solid oak door.

“Shit,” he seethed.

He turned away. Turned back. Turned away. Bit his lip. Turned back. Hesitated. Knocked.

The large door creaked open enough for him to limp through then shut deftly behind him. 

It was stiflingly warm, and the air was thick with the scent of lavender and sage. 

Ignoring the impulse to run, Jaskier swallowed the lump in this throat and stepped forward. 

“Of all the people I expected through my door this morning, you Jaskier, never even crossed my mind,” a woman’s drawl sounded around him.

Jaskier shuddered.

“Believe me,” he grumbled, “I wouldn’t be here if I had any other option.”

The woman appeared in the doorway to a room off the main hall. She was draped in a long white and black dress, her black hair tumbled to her waist in a shimmer of delicate curls, her violet eyes flashed in the warm candlelight. 

“Yennefer,” Jaskier forced a smile and the Mage narrowed her eyes at him.

“Why are you here?” she swooped up to him and he held his ground. Just. 

“Because you’re what Geralt would do. Uh – I mean – that’s not what – shit,” Jaskier reddened.

Yennefer quirked an eyebrow at him but remained silent, watching him scrupulously with those unnerving eyes. 

“He’s missing. He went on a hunt and didn’t come back,” Jaskier tried to draw himself to his full height, then regretted it when his knee lanced with pain.

Yennefer didn’t miss his grimace but was more focused on the silver sword at the Bard’s hip. She took it from him, studying the blade closely, then tucked it into her own belt. Jaskier glared at her.

“Missing?” her voice was flat, and her eyes betrayed her concern.

“I’m worried he…” Jaskier couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t even allow the thought to enter his mind.

Yennefer turned from him; her hands fisted at her sides.

“There was a lot of blood and – and feathers. Great big golden feathers,” Jaskier fiddled with the strap of his lute.

“Where?” she turned on him, eyes blazing with fire.

“A clearing. In the forest outside of Yefren,” Jaskier started back a step.

Yennefer spun into the middle of the hall, arms out and murmured something under her breath.

A wind swept up out of nowhere and a large golden circle started to appear before her.

“Oh no, no, no, no!” Jaskier lurched towards her, “There is no way I am letting you go after him by yourself! If you think – “

She stepped into the portal. Jaskier grabbed her elbow. His ears popped, his vision flashed and the next thing he knew he was on all fours in the middle of the clearing, trembling, panting hard, his sore knee throbbing.

“Idiot,” Yennefer scolded him, but her concern for the Bard was short lived as she took in the carnage of the clearing. 

Jaskier struggled to his feet.

“A griffin,” the Mage growled, inspecting one of the feathers closely.

“A what?” Jaskier stared at her, “A griffin? You mean the big half-lion, half-eagle things with the sharp beaks and long talons? That kind of griffin?”

“What other kind is there?” Yennefer hovered her hand over one of the many pools of drying blood, face scrunched up and twitching her fingers.

He didn’t understand. Geralt had fought griffins before. The Witcher had told him himself. So, what had happened here? 

The Mage dipped a feather into the blood, raised it up, set fire to it and then rubbed the ash between her hands.

“It took him to it’s den, up in the mountains,” she stood, dusting her hands off on her dress, getting ready to open another portal.

“Wait!” Jaskier shouted, “I’m coming too.”

“What use will you be against a Griffin? Especially with an injury like yours?” her violet eyes flashed dangerously, “The chances of him being alive are… I don’t need you getting in my way.”

“I need to be there. I – I need –“ Jaskier’s voice broke. 

His blue eyes were blown wide, his entire body seemed to be vibrating with fear and worry and desperation.

“You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” the Mage glowered at him.

Jaskier froze.

Yennefer bowed her head in understanding. She still loved the Witcher, even though she tried not to, and she knew in that moment that she couldn’t leave Jaskier behind. If the roles were reversed, she would absolutely insist on coming along. No power on earth could stop her.

“Fine,” she sighed, holding out her arm.

Jaskier hesitated, shock flitting across his face.

“Take my arm Bard or I will leave you,” she growled at him.

As soon as Jaskier’s fingers closed over her forearm, she stepped into the golden portal.

Jaskier was prepared this time and braced himself against the invasive magics that forced him from one fixed point to another.

But his stomach dropped, and a yelp escaped his lips as his feet flailed on the edge of a cliff that dropped hundreds of feet below.

A hand fisted in the nape of his doublet and he was dragged back onto solid ground.

“Sorry about that. Misjudged the exit,” Yennefer let him go and he sprawled on the rough rock, chest heaving.

“S’alright,” he managed, “Thanks. Doesn’t mean I like you though.”

The Mage smiled, a genuine expression of humour lighting up her face. Jaskier found himself drawn in by the sparkle of her eyes and the curl of her lip. He had to admit that she was startlingly beautiful. One could almost forget that she had been the cause of a lot of his more unpleasant experiences traveling with the Witcher. If she wasn’t, you know, Yennefer, he might have even found himself enjoying her company, becoming her friend. But he knew better than that.

He shook himself, struggling to his feet and dusting himself off.

“Are we close?” he glanced at her, her expression now one of tight concern.

“Just up a bit further,” Yennefer narrowed her eyes as she looked at a steep, narrow path leading away from the edge of the cliff.

The path was imposed either side by a vast wall of rock that towered towards the clouds. Jaskier swallowed hard as he tried to peer up the enclosed passageway.

“And the griffin nest is… along there?” he worried.

Yennefer nodded and set off, not waiting to see if the Bard was following her.

Jaskier hurried after her, seething in pain as his right knee throbbed, but determined to keep up with the Mage.

“I can fix that, you know,” she cast back at him, indifference tainting her voice.

“Nope, no thanks. I’ve had enough of your witchy bullshit to last a lifetime. I’ll be fine.”

As the words left his mouth, his leg buckled underneath him, and he collapsed painfully to the ground.

“Fuck,” he wailed.

“Jaskier, let me – “ she tried to approach him.

“I don’t need your help. Just give me two damn minutes, and I’ll be fine,” he spat.

“Of all the ridiculous, stubborn, insufferable –“ Yennefer picked him up by his scruff, her strength surprising him, and held her hand over his injured knee.

Jaskier yelped as his leg burned hot but then the pain vanished, and he was left tingling as the magic rippled through his body.

“There, now you won’t slow me down,” Yennefer released him and marched on up the path.

Jaskier tested his weight on his leg and when it didn’t hurt, he scurried after the Mage.

“Still don’t like you,” he huffed at her.

“Still think you’re an idiot,” she shot back.

The path took them higher up the side of the mountain and the steep walls slowly smoothed out into a rocky plateau.

“Couldn’t you have brought us a bit closer?” Jaskier complained as the climb started burning in his muscles.

“And risk being spotted by the griffin? No thanks. Approaching on foot attracts less attention.” she didn’t look at him but Jaskier could practically feel how tense she was.

“Is it much further?” he whined.

“Shut up,” Yennefer snapped.

Jaskier grumbled as he readjusted his lute strap, trying to contain his own worry that threatened to consume him like a raging fire.

Then Yennefer stopped, causing Jaskier to crash into her back. She scowled at him. He held his hands up in apology, a quip on the tip of his tongue, but she pressed her finger to her lips then pointed to the rocky outcrop that jutted out of the scree slop on the edge of the plateau. 

There, amongst the rocks, was the entrance to a cave.

“In there?” the Bard husked.

“In there,” Yennefer nodded.

They approached slowly, cautiously, Yennefer keeping her hands up by her chest, ready to throw spells at anything that might try to attack them, Jaskier staying close behind her, following her every step as quietly as he could.

His gut clenched when he spotted swathes of blood smeared across the ground and the rocks littering the way to the entrance of the cave.

Yennefer stalked up to the mouth of the cave like a cat, keeping low and alert.

Jaskier paused a few paces behind her. He could taste copper and realised that he had been chewing the inside of his cheek.

He dreaded what they might find. He tried not to think the worst. There was a tremor rolling through him and he was finding it hard to breath.

“Shit,” Yennefer snarled, leaping from her considered position and storming into the cave.

“Wh-what?” Jaskier gulped, making to follow but his feet felt like lead.

He forced himself to move and peered into the gloom. His blood ran cold.

At the back of the cave amongst branches and straw lay a hulking great mass. Golden feathers stained with blood, a beak and talons sharper than the finest rapiers, large orange eyes glazed over and unblinking. The beast was dead. A sword was buried deep into its neck. Blood pooled on the ground around it.

In front of the griffin crouched Yennefer and at her feet lay – 

“Geralt!” Jaskier choked.

The Witcher was deathly pale, caked in blood, deep gouges glistened across his chest and waist, his left arm was twisted awkwardly to one side. His eyes were closed.

“Is…is he…?” Jaskier approached slowly, bile rising in his throat.

“He’s alive,” Yennefer hovered a hand over Geralt’s torn torso, fingers quivering, “But only just.”

Jaskier’s fell to his knees, breath coming in harsh snatches.

“Can you save him?” his voice was barely a whisper.

The Mage didn’t say anything. She focused her violet eyes on Geralt’s face, mumbling under her breath and waving her hand in circles over his chest.

“Yennefer?” Jaskier strained.

“Shut up,” she snapped, shuffling herself slightly and resuming her incantation. 

Jaskier felt numb. He had patched Geralt up many times after a hunt, but even his skill with a needle and thread couldn’t fix what only magic surely could.

If anyone could save Geralt, it was Yennefer, and he prayed to any god who was listening that the Witcher would pull through this. He had to. Jaskier didn’t know what he would do without him. Geralt had become his life. Even when they spent months apart, he was always singing and telling stories of The White Wolf. And when they were together, two friends traveling the road and helping people who needed them, those were the best days of Jaskier’s life. And just like that, it could all be over. Just like that, he could lose everything. And he was helpless to stop it.

He watched Yennefer work in silence, never taking his eyes off Geralt.

There were so many things he wanted to say to him, so many things he had been afraid to say, so many things that he needed Geralt to know. 

As he knelt there on the cold cave floor, mind churning, heart aching, a shadow fell over him. He frowned at the sudden lack of light and looked over his shoulder.

Jaskier went rigid.

“Y-Yennefer?” he rasped.

The Mage didn’t respond, too deep into her magics to notice him.

“Yennefer!” he tried again, willing his limbs to move but they weren’t obeying his commands.

“Shut up,” she hissed at him, “I need to focus.”

“Not one. Two.”

“What?”

“Two,” Jaskier pointed to the mouth of the cave and Yennefer looked up.

“Shit,” she cursed.

Blocking the exit of the cave stood another griffin. It’s orange eyes gleamed as it hunched over, wings ruffling, tail lashing. It scraped its talons against the rocky ground.   
The beast’s gaze rested on its dead mate and it screeched. Jaskier’s hands flew up to protect his ears.

The griffin lunged forwards and Jaskier was thrown out of the way by Yennefer, who stood quickly, ready to cast her next spell in the creature’s direction.

Jaskier scrambled to his feet, glad the Mage had fixed his knee when she did and pulled at the small dagger he kept in his boot. The blade felt ridiculous in his hand compared to the hulking great beast that was advancing on Yennefer, who still stood over Geralt.

“Jaskier run!” she shouted at him, drawing Geralt's silver sword.

“No, I’m not leaving you,” Jaskier brandished his dagger, trying to stop his hand from shaking.

“Idiot,” Yennefer snarled at him.

The griffin bellowed again, its terrible call ringing in the rocky space.

The Mage ducked its swiping talons and hurled a ball of fire at the beast. The griffin shrieked and Jaskier felt the rush of heat as he dodged its flailing wings.

The monster lurched towards Yennefer and Jaskier threw his blade as hard as he could, but it just bounced off the thick, dense feathers and tinkled to the ground. The griffin turned on him.

“Shit,” Jaskier groaned. 

He leaped out of the way of it’s snapping beak, landing awkwardly and struggling to keep his balance. The beast barrelled into him and sent him sprawling to the ground.

Yennefer threw another ball of fire and the griffin reared up, knocking her back. The Mage tripped over Geralt and she fell backwards, dropping the sword and hitting her head off the rock. She struggled to sit up, head pounding, legs tangled with Geralt’s as the griffin advanced.

Fear flooded Yennefer’s face.

The crack of wood and twang of lute strings followed by a monstrous bellow filled the air. Jaskier had cracked his instrument over the griffin’s head with as much force as he could muster, placing himself between the beast, and Yennefer and Geralt. 

The griffin fixed him with its orange eyes.

“Jaskier get down!” Yennefer shrilled at him.

The Bard dropped and a jet of white-hot flames streaked over his head, hitting the griffin square in the face.

The monster screeched in pain as the flames licked around its head. Yennefer stood; the stream of fire still directed at the beast.

The griffin backed up, desperate to get away from the burning attack. It retreated to the mouth of the cave then launched itself into the air with a mighty beat of its feathered wings.

“It’ll be back soon. We need to get Geralt out of here,” Yennefer panted.

Jaskier hauled himself over to the Witcher’s side and the Mage held her arms out. A wind whipped up and the golden circle started to appear.

The griffin’s shrieks echoed around the cave walls and Jaskier saw the beast land on the plateau and charge straight for the cave entrance.

“Hurry Yennefer!” Jaskier pleaded.

Yennefer, weak from trying to help Geralt and then defending against the griffin, shook with the effort of maintaining a steady portal.

“I can’t hold it,” she grit her teeth, “Come on Jaskier!”

Jaskier tucked his arms under Geralt’s and dragged him towards the golden circle.

The griffin clattered into the cave, talons skidding on the rock.

Jaskier heaved Geralt in one final burst of strength and tumbled through the portal. Yennefer grabbed his shoulder at the last minute, following him through as the griffin’s sharp beak closed inched from her head.

The air hummed around them. The griffin leaped in once last attempt. Its strangled cry cut off as Yennefer let go of the magic and the portal closed, showering them all in a wave of blood as the griffin’s head rolled along the floor.

Jaskier collapsed next to Geralt. Yennefer sank to her knees.

They were safe, back in her house. They were all safe. And they were all alive. 

***  
Bathed, in fresh clothing, and full of stew, Jaskier sat by Geralt’s side as Yennefer fussed with the herb packs and bandages she had pressed onto Geralt’s wounds. She had spent the better part of the evening stood over the Witcher, repairing his broken body with magic until she didn’t have the strength to continue, then dove into her healing supplies to finish off.

Not being able to help, the Mage had insisted Jaskier clean himself up and get some rest. He had begrudgingly agreed but once he had bathed, he rummaged around in the poorly supplied kitchen and threw together a pot of vegetable and chestnut stew, thankful that his time spent camping with Geralt had made him resourceful. 

He had brought Yennefer a bowl, which she had scoffed gratefully, and was now perched on the edge of Geralt’s bed, trying to fight the weariness threatening to drag him under.

“Is he going to be okay?” he stifled a yawn.

“He’ll live,” was her reply. 

She looked as exhausted as he felt and overwhelming sympathy for her washed over him.

“You should get cleaned up too. You need a rest more than I do. I’ll watch over him,” the Bard said kindly.

Yennefer looked at him a moment before nodding stiffly and leaving the room, but not before she cast a glance back at the Bard and the Witcher.

Jaskier stood, rubbed his face in his hands, then settled in the chair next to the bed. He let his gaze run over Geralt, studying the steady rise and fall of his chest.

“You scared the shit out of me,” Jaskier grumbled, “Don’t ever do that again, you hear me you bastard?”

Jaskier tucked his arms around himself. 

“Who would I sing about if you were gone, huh? Yennefer? Not likely.”

He felt tears pricking in his eyes and brushed them away quickly.

"I sacrificed my lute for you. You'd better appreciate that. Oh, and Roach is okay. Yennefer went back for her."

He paused, his chest tightening.

“You don’t get to just leave me like that. I intend to spend many more years by your side, so don’t go getting into anymore near-death situations, okay?”

He bit his lip.

“I love you Geralt. My heart will not cope if you ever to this to me again. I fear it would end me.”

As the minutes ticked by, Jaskier finally gave into sleep.

Yennefer crept into the room about an hour later, checking Geralt’s bandages again, and placing a blanket gently over the sleeping Bard. 

His bravery, or foolishness, in the cave had saved her life. A new respect for the man warmed her heart and she made a mental note to thank him properly in the morning.

She sat softly next to Geralt on the bed and tucked a lock of his ashen hair behind his ear.

She didn’t say anything. She just watched him for a while.

As the sun spilled its golden rays through the wicker framed window, Jaskier woke with a start. 

He blinked in confusion, taking a moment to work out where he was and why he had a crick in his neck.

It all came rushing back and he sucked in a breath, letting the blanket spill to the floor and rushing to Geralt’s side.

That’s when he noticed Yennefer, curled up at the foot of the bed, sound asleep.

Jaskier ran a hand through his hair.

He perched on the edge of the bed and glanced out of the window.

“Everything’s going to be okay now,” he mumbled.

He started when Geralt stirred next to him.

“Geralt?” Jaskier was on his feet, leaning over him.

The Witcher grumbled, his lips twitching.

“Yennefer!” Jaskier hissed.

The Mage jolted awake and scrambled to her feet.

“Easy Geralt,” she soothed, placing a hand on the Witcher’s bare chest.

Eyes still shut, Geralt grumbled again.

“Jask,” he breathed, “Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. Yennefer flashed him a look.

“I’m here,” Jaskier placed his hand over Geralt’s and laced their fingers together, trying to reassure and comfort through the pressure of his fingertips.

Geralt settled again, becoming motionless once more, apart from the rise and fall of his chest.

Yennefer sighed, and went to leave the room.

“Yen-“ Jaskier started.

“It’s okay,” she smiled sadly, “Stay with him. I’ll be back with something for breakfast soon.”

She left.

Jaskier turned back to the Witcher.

“I’m here,” he whispered, “I’m here.”

***  
After two days, Geralt’s wounds were all but healed.

After three days, the Witcher woke.

He frowned in confusion.

He slowly sat up, blinking his amber eyes against the soft candlelight.

“Take it easy,” a female voice sounded from the bottom of his bed.

“Yennefer?” he grumbled, forcing his eyes to focus.

The Mage was stooped over a table at the end of the bed, tidying up herbs and bandages. 

“Hello Geralt,” she smiled at him.

“What happened?” he gruffed.

“Griffins,” she said simply.

Geralt nodded slowly. It was starting to come back to him. Yefren. The hunt. Discovering not one, but two of the winged beasts lurking in the woods. The desperate fight. The pain. The dropping of his stomach as he was carried high into the air. The desperate struggle in the cave. Then nothing.

“Thank you,” he blinked at her.

“I’m not the one who went looking for you,” she tilted her head and Geralt followed her gaze.

Jaskier was curled up under a blanket on a high-backed chair, snoring softly.

“He came to me for help, and I couldn’t have gotten you out of there without him,” she folded the last of the bandages and dropped them into the basket by her feet.

Geralt watched the Bard as he twitched in his sleep.

Something strange twisted in his chest and he forced himself to look away.

Yennefer smiled at him, soft and beautiful, but it did not quite reach her eyes. There was something dark in them that Geralt couldn’t identify.

Geralt leaned back against the headboard as Yennefer moved round the bed and shook the Bard gently.

Jaskier stirred, eyes fluttering lazily. He turned in the chair, arching in a delicious stretch, a soft yawn falling from him.

He met Yennefer’s gaze, frowned, then his eyes snapped to Geralt.

He scrambled out of the chair, Yennefer stepped aside, and he threw his arms around the Witcher, pulling him into a tight embrace.

“Thank the gods,” he mumbled into Geralt’s shoulder.

Geralt lifted his arms up slowly to encase the Bard and for a moment they just held each other. Yennefer slipped quietly out of the room.

Jaskier pulled back, hands still lingering on Geralt’s shoulders as he studied the Witcher’s face.

“You – you horses arse,” he grumbled.

“It’s good to see you too,” Geralt hummed. He let his hands fall to Jaskier’s hips, ghosting over the material of his shirt, not quite making contact.

“Geralt…” Jaskier looked at him.

Geralt could hear his pulse quicken.

“Jaskier,” he breathed, “I love you too.”

“W-what?”

“I love you too,” Geralt tilted his head slightly, amber eyes searching blue.

“You… you could hear me?” Jaskier looked mortified.

“Hmm,” Geralt brushed the pad of his thumb down Jaskier’s cheek and the Bard leaned into the touch.

“You heard… all of it?”

Geralt nodded.

“Right…good.”

“Jaskier, I’m sorry.”

Jaskier let his head fall back against Geralt’s shoulder. 

“Just don’t leave me, okay?” he sounded small, scared.

“I won’t,” Geralt promised, “I won't.”


End file.
